How The Mighty Have Fallen
by Wickedgal08
Summary: For Jac Danver's Afterlife Challenge. Charles Widmore starts to realize maybe what he'd had and lost may just have been the only thing he should've fought for. Rated T to be safe.


How The Mighty Have Fallen

A Charles Widmore Fic

For Jac Danver's Afterlife Challenge

….

Ever since he'd been a little boy, he's imagined sitting at the top like this. Owner of a powerful corporation sweeping across most of central and western America, being on top is an enviable position, which means all the little details matter. He thrives on the power, finding it compensates for certain other…aspects of his life – his marriage for one.

The company had been built entirely by scratch, a fact he's most proud of. And though he has two children and a wife who isn't exactly far from matching the description of the _ice queen_, he feels like he has conquered both the business and the marital world quite well.

And yet it seems in the case of the latter, some matters will always continue to confuse and bewilder him.

Like how sometimes waking up next to her feels _wrong_, like he's meant to be somewhere else, doing something else.

And the fact they seem to exchange contemptible looks as they rise simultaneously seems to confirm the fact she feels the same. He seems to have conquered everything but her affection, like in some other world he's caused her some great offence she's still holding on to.

But, as always, he shrugs it off, letting the sharp remarks roll of her tongue and off his back.

Somehow, despite their lack of affection, they've never separated.

It's as if some greater force is keeping them together, for reasons unknown.

….

It's after their umpteenth argument, he realizes why they end up falling back in each other's arms. They have no one else. It's not like their children need them anymore, and that sort of reckless logic weaves their fate.

When Eloise swans in one evening, gushing about an idea their son has about combining the soft subtleties of a classical composition with some mainstream rock, he, naturally, agrees to placate her. After so many years of marriage, he learns it's easier to just go with the flow when it comes to her. It's a stupid idea, he feels, but telling her that would only provoke accusations in his direction about him constantly undermining her, which would lead to yet another row.

Sometimes he envisions a quieter place, far away, naturally, where he can hear himself _think_. In fact, sometimes he envisions an _island_, and it's gotten to the point where it feels _real._ He can see the white sand stretching for miles, hear the gulls circling ahead, their cries echoing across the endless sky, can smell the salt of the ocean as it tumbles in to play.

In his dreams, he sees himself there.

But it always ends in three shots, firing into his chest, sending him back into the darkness, his body shooting up in bed, the sweat dripping from his face.

It's almost ironic how that particular recurring nightmare feels more _real_ than anything else in his sorry excuse for a life.

….

There's no _defining_ moment when he feels his daughter slip away. As far as he's concerned, she's been slipping away for years.

But after the concert he'd been forced to attend (as a compromise, he'd made sure to sit on a different table, so he didn't have to listen to all the feigned _oohs_ and _aahs_) he sits in his car, pulling out his phone and dialling her number, for no properly explained reason other than the sheer need to hear her voice.

_The number you have been dialling no longer exists…_

It sends his heart plummeting.

He tries her home phone, her work number, all of which he _knows_ she's not changed, and finds each of them no longer exists. He slumps in his seat, realizing wherever she's gone, he can no longer reach her.

And, weirdly enough, he doesn't feel that strange choking sensation every father feels when their children leave home. Instead, he feels this sense of resignation, like he's been bested in some way, like he's lost some sort of struggle, some sort of _fight._

When it starts to rain, he finds himself thinking, _perfect timing_ as he leans his head against the window.

He finds it's easier to hide the tears this way.

….

Less than three days later, Eloise storms in, her face a mixture of mingled sadness and resignation. Instinct tells him to wrap his arms around her, to feed her meaningless words of comfort.

He does neither. But he does reach for a glass of McCutcheon whiskey, wondering why it has such a bitter taste this evening.

Despite the roaring fire, there's frost present. He stares at her, sees her glassy eyes, and her clenched knuckles, and knows (somehow) he's lost Daniel too. Somehow, the moment he looked away, everything he'd built just sort of slipped away. And he can see in her eyes she's blaming the same person he is.

_Desmond Hume._

Helplessness isn't something he is familiar with so, in lieu of all other options, he downs his glass, trying to ignore the fact he's using his _special whiskey_ for a very _un_special occasion.

"This is your fault," a sudden vehement voice hisses.

"Mine?" He blinks. "How did you figure that one out?"

"If you weren't such a _controlling_ bastard, our children would still be here!"

He knows she's lashing out because there's no other way for her to (acceptably) reveal her emotions, but still, he can't help but think _kind of the pot calling the kettle black here._

He hears her walk away, and he can't help but wonder.

_How did we get to this point?_

….

Time drags on. His business consumes him. The picture he keeps of Penny is folded down on his desk (too many reminders). Beside him rests a glass of whiskey (half full, naturally) and a stack of unanswered messages.

At some point, he let a lot of things fall by the wayside.

As the hours drag on by, he lets his head fall into his hands, and the sound of the phone ringing (sounding so shrill) bugs him.

It ends up on the floor, utterly destroyed beyond repair.

A better metaphor for himself, really, than anything else.

….

He lifts back the pages of the calendar, wondering why he's still _here_, stuck in between misery and despair like a fly caught in a web. It seems as his misery grows, his success imitates tenfold.

Money ceases to mean anything. He finds himself dropping loose notes (that's all they are) into the empty guitar cases of buskers for no other reason than it reminds him of Daniel, and his affinity with music.

And when he drifts home to Eloise, she stands in the view of the window, her expression oddly peaceful.

"What's going on?" an innocent enquiry, but he can hear the tremor in his own voice.

"It's time, Charles," she says, her voice confident.

"Time for what?"

Before he knows it, her hands are on the side of his face, literally _shaking_ him into reality. Disregarding everything in front of him, his mind begins to drag memories back from somewhere he'd never even believed could've existed. And he blinks rapidly, each blink reproducing more and more memories.

When he finally drags himself out of his stupor, it dawns on him the reason he's fallen (and fallen hard) from grace this time, it's because he's lost it all before. He lost everything before, and the resulting attempt in trying to carry on resulted in his life being ended.

Those shots in his nightmares suddenly make a frightening amount of sense.

"What's going on Eloise?" he barks, for the first time uncertain.

"I stayed to try and rebuild the relationship with my son I destroyed by sending him to that goddamn island, Charles," she speaks, her voice still ice cold. "Even when you weren't a part of our lives, you still managed to ruin everything."

"I saved his life!"

"Only for me to end it!" she screeches, the serenity of the moment destroyed. "You _knew_ there it was risky sending him there! Apart from those _nutcases_, the Dharma Initiative," she sneered at the name, "we were the only ones who knew what the Island was _truly_ capable of."

"We knew _nothing_, Eloise," he growls. "It was sketchy guesswork what we knew, at best. Certain things we knew for sure, but other than that, the island was much a mystery to us as it was to everyone else."

He can see the slap coming before she even raises her hand. The stinging sensation it leaves, however, is nothing compared to the guilt which actually _burns._ Because despite everything he's ever said, every lie he's ever let himself believe, the things that really _mattered_ were never on, or related to, the island. The island was just a convenient excuse to run, to wage war on the people he'd been convinced had ruined his life, when really the blame had always rested on his shoulders.

And they stay there, the guilt and misery resting between them (once again) keeping them tied here.

Some things they'll never be able to let go of – including each other.

….

Days, weeks, _months_ pass before he brings up the argument again. Even then, he's learned to tread cautiously.

Though he knows almost _nothing_ about this sort of thing (the afterlife, and whatnot) he does know they can only _move on_ when they've let certain things go. And, if he knows his wife, they could be well stuck here _forever_, because she is about as good at letting the little things go as he is at expressing his inner emotions.

So, when he brings the subject up, it's not exactly a surprise to see her eyes flash with coldness.

"We're stuck _here_ as you so eloquently put it because _you_ can't let the _little_ things go!"

And again he's back to thinking about the anecdote about the pot calling the kettle black. It's becoming an overfamiliar anecdote, and her cold façade is wearing a little thin on him.

"We're both to blame…"

She snorts.

"Some of us should take more responsibility than _that."_

"Goddam it, woman!" he roars. "How many times? Look, I get that I screwed up. Multiple times. Must you hold it over my head?"

Her lips curl into a sneer.

"I'm your wife. Of course I must," is her (unsurprising) response.

"Can't we move on?" he implores. "I'm tired of this. Of us fighting all the time."

He expects her to retaliate with some brutal, yet well-rehearsed, comment at his expense. Instead, she seems to deflate, gripping his withered hand in hers.

"I miss my son," she admits, a big admission for her. "Everything I did, I did it so he could have a better life."

"I know," he tells her, for once telling the entire truth. "I have no such excuse with my daughter. I let her slip through my fingers, and for what? My pride? Had I just accepted Hume, I might've been able to keep her in my life."

They share a smile, finally realizing they've made something tonight.

_Progress._

….

As time passes by, he makes a conscious decision to change.

He closes the business – or rather, steps down as the boss. He hands his position to his ever loyal assistant, gives the team a last speech (and lecture), and walks away from it.

It gives him a sense of closure he's never had before.

Afterwards, he returns home, not really sure what he's doing. He looks at the photo of him and Penny (one of the few he possesses), the one taken when she'd been no more than nine. It's a toothy grin she wears, and her hair is in pigtails, and he knows deep down there's a _reason_ there's not more like this.

Even before all this island crap, he knows he was hardly father of the year.

He kisses the photo of Penny, then folds the frame (carefully) face down on the table.

It's harder, after all, to say goodbye to the things in life you held dear.

….

He drives to the church, not entirely sure what significance it holds other than it being the church he married Eloise in. As he drives, he finds it's easier to tune the world out knowing where he's going it won't even matter.

Not anymore.

Heartland's _I loved her first_ seeps through the radio, a song which surprises him, forcing him to capture his breath. And all those actions he'd never taken – accepting Hume, reconciling with his daughter, meeting with his grandson – lie before him, as plain as day, and as broken as his heart.

As he steps out of the car, he sighs, knowing Eloise will be inside there, not entirely sure they were ever compatible, wondering if love is really a good enough excuse to keep two people together, because, if you think about, the world is far crueller a person than he ever was – and so is fate.

But he strides (confidently, as always) towards the church, leaving the keys in the ignition (he won't be needing them anymore).

And as he pulls back the doors, he finds his way in, able to spot the white glow of Eloise's hair. He allows a grim smile to cross his lips…and then stops, noticing she's talking to someone.

His stride slows. His breathing quickens.

As the stranger rises fluently to his feet, he turns, revealing a mop of blondish brown hair and a warm (if not a little wary) smile. He is clad in a dark leather jacket, and denim jeans, with his hands shoved into his pockets.

It surprises him to learn he already knows who this stranger is.

"Charlie."

The man's smile widens, his head tilting to one side as he scrutinises him.

"Grandpa. I've been expecting you."

Despite the fact he can see in his own grandson Desmond's hair and Penny's eyes, it almost shocks him to see _himself_ there too, almost as if he never expected to have this visible tie to his own grandson.

The next few moments are spent staring in unsuppressed awe. He studies his grandson with intensity, seeing so much of Penny it almost _hurts_. He promptly closes the gap between them, tentatively throwing his arms around Charlie, aware of the sound of a door opening and yet at the same time refusing to acknowledge anything else but _this_ moment.

A warm white light envelopes them.

And despite _everything_, he has to question what was going through his head when he chose business – amongst other things – over family.

Because right about now, that decision looks about the stupidest one he's ever made.

* * *

><p><strong>An: I hoped this showed Charles Widmore's human side, because I suspect despite what an utter d**k he was, he did actually care for Penny, and I think he would regret pushing her away. So this hopefully showed that. Anyway, enjoy and review!**


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